In the garden is a poem without time, without accretion, without unsorted artifacts or small containers.

There is a poem with no witnesses and of no accounts. It was Monday I knew this, from the

archaeology

of bedroom

Who damned me to my own belongings?

image of a whale barnacle once about structure

once on a wall

it’s a jurassic eye now,

not not-labial, & part of the crush

denim and vellum xxx embarrassments of ribbon

I sleep

Walk the slurry of primordial fiber

Fight two convictions

Need no objects / save them all

Try to clear a path

Every thing is thing’ed again

Every day is Easter, especially Easter

Feral cats walk the wall and no I would not prefer the garden

But what is it one owes their lizard innards?

I’m ruled by reptiles who won’t let go

Let me tell you:

I’d pay a little price

for a little lenience